Wednesday, January 28, 2009

It's Just Dawned On Me...

When I was 12 or 13, I distinctly recall wanting to be married with kids by the time I was 21.

I remember making that statement as if I'd said it yesterday, and it was borne mainly out of the fact that my Dad was in his Fifties then and being all doddery. I wanted to be a 'hip' Dad, and not an old father who needed his replaced.

It never occurred to me that life doesn't always follow a set pattern, although we all subscribe to it in one form or another; job + house + partner = marriage and several bald, shitting, sleeping vomitmachines.

That was all I wanted in life, and it comes as quite a shock to be hurtling towards THIRTY-FUCKING-FIVE this year not massively fulfilled at work, renting a flat above a chemists to an anonymous greedy fucksicle, totally bereft of a loving woman, and where the only bald, shitting, sleeping vomitmachine near me supports Nottingham Forest and pays half the rent.

This vague wandering through life could well by the source of my 'depression'.

In fact, I'll quantify that: It is the source of my depression, without a doubt.

I realise now that it was a tad fanciful of me to want to be married with kids that would now be 14. I can't even comprehend how I'd guide these teenagers through life when I can barely do it myself.

Nonetheless, to paraphrase Gabrielle and make it less positive, dreams don't come true, and I didn't follow that path (thankfully). I'm rather glad I stumbled through my Twenties unwed, although more sex wouldn't have gone amiss. But it has to be said that the Thirties really do feel like the settle-down zone, particularly as about half a dozen friends of mine got married last year and babies are now starting to appear.

In some way, I'm pleased I still have my independence. And in thinking about this strange parallel life I could've had, there's no doubt in my mind that this blog - if it existed - would DEFINITELY be bitching about my sodding children while I remained shackled to my mortgage and whatever job I had.

The jury's out on what my wife would be like, though.

So here I am, bitching about my insignificant life while Gaza's fucked beyond all hope, where desperate people are at the mercy of ignorant fucktards who just can't stop antagonising a bad-tempered, morally dubious army with their very, very big rockets during a fragile ceasefire.

Where 51 million jobs will disappear this year, and the entire planet's economic growth hasn't been this bad since the entire planet was at war with itself (for the second time).

And where, in this brave new world of financial ruin, racial divisions, and my bad back, Jeffrey Archer still steadfastly refuses to kill himself.

I'm seeing a physio tomorrow.

And I'm not that depressed, just slightly introspective.

Again.

If there's one good thing about getting old, it's the realisation that I'd better get my thumb outta my ass, once and for all and before it's too late. (Thank you America, for your delightful expressions).

2009: It's Ass Extraction time.

And to celebrate, here's a picture of a man who looks like a thumb...



Thumbman

Friday, January 23, 2009

I've Pulled!!!

It was a few days ago, when I was helping the guys at work shift a few boxes that had come in. As I got stuck in, trotting from van to pavement, an attractive redhead walked by. I looked over and said nothing, finding myself smiling meekly. She sneered in return and continued on her way.

When I woke up the next morning, I was in agony. I had pulled my lower back out of joint and several days on, it is only getting worse.

Granted, spending last weekend sitting at a jaunty angle for two days in front of my computer probably didn't help my spine much, but then neither did box shifting in this atrophied state.

I've had to cancel a birthday do I was off to tonight, you know, the one where I was to meet the Love of my Life™, choosing to go home and swallow more painkillers instead.

And to think I was mentally preparing myself to bike back to work and CHANGE EVERYTHING (etc). I can barely walk.

Jolly good.

On the plus side, I have managed to break the barren patch to get back into writing The World's Worst Novel That Will Never Get Published™, so I'm happier. Furthermore, Obama's become president. You heard it here first. Am I the only one who thinks he should get his own theme tune? Who's the leader of the club who's here to save the day? B.A.R... A.C.K... O.B.A.M.A.

I love that man. What an inspirati-Jesus, my fucking back!!!

Sunday, January 18, 2009

Manic Suppression

I would like to begin by thanking everyone who commented on my last post, the one where I gave the vague impression that I might be one whiskey away from cutting my head off with the jagged edge from a tuna can.

Not only was I very touched by your thoughts, I was also intrigued that some of you recommended I go see a doctor. It was then that I remembered; I did, once upon a time.

It was about 10 years ago, when I felt as devoid of spirit as I do now. I had felt useless, aimless, and somewhat desperate. I was working at the BBC back then, had a couple of panic attacks while I was there, and knew there was something very wrong with me. Then, as today, it wasn't particularly evident, certainly not in the real, living, walking me (unlike the wrist-slitting impression I give here), but my unhappiness was genuine; a profound disappointment with myself and everything I'd achieved.

So on my Mum's suggestion, I sheepishly booked an appointment to see my doctor.

I walked into the doctor's room. The usual doctor was away and in her place was a young and attractive locum. I remember thinking that I was pleased to be wearing my sexiest shirt, which boosted my confidence when I saw her. I greeted her with an awkward little smile.

The locum, cute though she was, also seemed fed up. She almost certainly had a raft of other patients to see, and didn't hide her exasperation very well.
'So you're not feeling so great,' she stated.

I sighed, and shifted in my seat. I'd never met someone I fancied before only to freely admit how shit I felt. 'Yeah, it's a bit embarrassing,' I began, trying to scan beyond her cool exterior to see if she actually give a hoot. 'I feel pretty bad, like I'm cracking up or something.' She looked back at me pokerfaced, then turned to the notes on her desk. I continued.

'I wouldn't normally waste your time with something like this, but I - I just feel a bit empty and lost.'

I felt stupid saying it. That was all that was wrong with me and there was nothing more I could add. As much as these thoughts consumed my every waking moment, it now seemed a woefully inadequate reason to be there.

'Do you think you've got depression?'

'Yeah,' I said. 'I guess so.'

'Well you don't,' she replied, not bothering to look up from her notes. 'If you were genuinely depressed, you wouldn't be able to look me in the eye.'

That was the moment - that bit right there - when I felt really fraudulent. Not only did she piss on my depression chips, but she made it clear that I can't be flirty and miserable at the same time, not to mention that I clearly wasn't her type. I wanted to leave immediately.

'You've got the blues,' she said. 'We all get it from time to time. We do have group evenings with a psychiatrist. I can add your name to the list, if you want.'

'Yeah,' I mumbled as I stared at my shoes, now appearing properly depressed.

'We'll send a letter out to you.'

'Ok,' I replied. I left the surgery as quickly as I could. The letter never arrived, and I managed to get on with my life anyway.

Ever since that humiliation, I'd been careful to consider just how depressed I actually am whenever I feel down. Managing to force myself out of the funk helps, doing anything positive. At the moment it's January, and I'm probably a candidate for SADs. I normally baulk at self-diagnosis as well as dodgy modern syndromes, but this one strikes a chord with me.

Best, I think, to be stoic and British about this; shut up, go for a walk, right all my wrongs (somewhat an understatement), and - oh yeah - never, ever, ever bother with professional help again.

Monday, January 12, 2009

Quagmire

Wrath. Pestilence. Indignation. Apathy.
If you were sickened and irritated by my last self-pitying and miserable entry, it's probably best to stop reading now.

This post is being eeked out on a Monday morning at work, far from the soulless pit that is my bedroom - There is a place where nothing happens, other than toxic apathy and constant viewing of anything on YouTube whilst I chainsmoke and play til 5am the crystal meth of computer games: Spider Solitaire. In the last few months I have won something like 300 games and lost a total of 4,000 times - Now that's a real commitment to OCD.

I feel sick right now, a rising tide frothing in my stomach wherein bobs last night's 4 semi-digested chocolate muffins, some Tesco's onion rings, and some plastic-tasting chicken and mushroom slices that were old and had been reduced. This means that everything I ate yesterday was either yellow, or chocolate brown.

I am wearing my jeans, which feel like a restrictive straitjacket for my legs. I have gained weight quicker than a Belushi brother on a bender.

I can't be arsed to write, and feel creatively blocked and physically apathetic. I have nothing to offer. I am bloated and fed up. I do nothing and am nothing. I had 2.5 hours sleep last night, so I can add mild confusion to my tally of negative emotions. I am completely bored with and completely indifferent to everything. If I had a loaded gun, I'd play Russian Roulette out of sheer disinterest in not playing Russian Roulette.

The weather is shit. I've got the 3 year itch at work. When I've felt like this in the past, I've quit whatever job I'm doing, fled the country, and done nothing somewhere warm. I can't do that again as it ends the same way; with me thinner and back in a different job I don't care about where I gain weight and the whole process repeats itself.

I am 35 this year, 35, and I still have absolutely no idea where I'm going. I was like this at 25. Doing this at 45 will really suck.

I am a piece of raw sewage floating down the cracked drainpipe that is my life, a filthy, empty bottle bobbing in a river of vomit. I have nothing to tell of the last few days, other than you can watch Jay & Silent Bob Strike Back on YouTube, and it's crap.

* A lettuce, a fucking lettuce, costs £1.24 in Tescos, but yellow food is slighty cheaper, although you will feel very very ill afterwards.

* If your mother has a Hungarian housekeeper, she will accidentally email you a 2009 calendar of semi-naked men, in Hungarian.

* No amount of watching atheist videos on YouTube will fill the yawning chasm of emptiness in your soul.

* No amount of watching Christian fundamentalist videos on YouTube will remove those thoughts of wanting to cave their smug, judgemental faces in with a fucking brick.

* Artie Lange has a more drug addled & fatter life than me, yet has managed to make lots of money off the back of that. (Until yesterday I'd not heard of him either, but that's the upside of months spent aimlessly surfing YouTube.)

* All shit and no bike makes Jack a fat boy.

* You have to threaten your landlord with withholding rent if you want pest control to come round just to look at your mouse.

* Sooner or later, porn stops becoming erotic and starts to look like what it is; the sad gyrations of financially needy, morally bankrupt exhibitionists being fucked by men with no conscience. Even sadder is when you're pondering all this while your jeans are round your ankles and you're sighing, masturbating half-heartedly and sighing as hot tears of regret roll down your fat face, 37 more rounds of Spider Solitaire temporarily on hold while you squirt limply into a tissue before shuffling dejectedly into the kitchen to reheat a beige fucking cube.

I am really, really terribly bored by it all.

Saturday, January 03, 2009

Waste of Space

If apathy and low self-esteem were country-sized, mine would be Russia. Which is big.

I have had like everyone else a lovely chunk off work with Xmas and New Year's neatly sandwiched inside like a chicken fajita stuffed full of fun. The only problem is I've totally wasted it; the contents of the wrap being sparsely-filled shit. I've barely left the flat, I'm eating yellow food, and I've written NO MORE THAN TWO LINES of my shitty novel - and that's annoyed me the most; all that free time, and I've barely tackled my little project (not a euphemism for onanism, which has continued unabated, thank you.)

Instead I've sat in my room in front of my computer, almost about to write but never quite managing to switch off spider fucking solitaire, or being able to stop watching Ross Kemp on Gangs. Or Abigail's Party. Or Religulous. Or anything else I could dream up to watch on Youtube instead of creatively writing my way out of the rut that is my life.

I've chainsmoked. I've stayed up til 6am. I've wished I had a little more fucking willpower. I've tried keeping my spirits up, even as I've sat here, fag in mouth and beer on desk and sighing while Ross Kemp tries to look nonchalant in front of a South African rapist just as our fucking resident mouse runs under my bedroom door and pauses to look up at me in disgust.

On the plus side, I had a very pleasant New Year's with Ed in Central London - we went to a cocktail bar, I spent about £100.00 without meaning to, and got a free tube home at 3am with thousands of other revellers.

Xmas was suitably short; I went to stay at my Mum's in just-North-of-London, kept the TV-watching-on-my-arse to a minimum, and managed to race back to my flat as soon as possible for what became an internet-watching-on-my-arse extravaganza instead.

On the minus side - and this could be huge - my mobile phone is fucked, rendering the sending of text messages an extremely aggravating process, so I've not bothered. Apologies to any friends if you're wondering why I appear not to be keeping in touch.

Furthermore, it feels like I've regained all that weight I lost in October.

It's fucking cold out, and I am trying to come to terms with commuting back to work on my pushbike in a couple of days.

I am a non-writing, weak-willed fat bastard.

I am smoking a lot.

I don't want to go back to work. I think I can see myself quitting my job this year, with or without a finished novel.

I am not particularly angry, or miserable, or depressed. I'm just really fed up. Comments telling me to chill the fuck out will not be appreciated. Comments stating that you're fed up too will be just the ticket.

I'd love to be positive and full of hope for 2009, but truth be told it'll just be another year of the same old bullshit, interspersed with occasional bouts of nothing.

Hurrah.